


Extraordinary (With You)

by Aeolist



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Autumn, F/M, apple picking, pumpkin cannon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-19
Updated: 2013-09-19
Packaged: 2017-12-27 01:05:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/972508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aeolist/pseuds/Aeolist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rose wants to go apple picking. The Doctor wants to do something more exciting. (Rose gets her way.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Extraordinary (With You)

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt fic from isilienelenihin. "Rose/Ten and picking apples." Happy autumn, everyone!
> 
> * * *

  
She thinks he might be fighting not to roll his eyes when she asks.

 

“Apple picking, Rose? Plain old apple picking?” he peers up at her from under the console, glasses half-askew, and she fights the sudden urge to poke him in the ribs with her toe.

 

“Apple picking!” she repeats, and smiles. She’s already wearing jeans and a v-neck jumper, her hair thrown into a messy ponytail. Her trainers are off, though. She wants to give the illusion that his ‘yes’ is a prerequisite to this trip, even though her mind’s already made up.

 

“It wasn’t even autumn, the last time we visited your mum,” he says. “It’ll throw off your internal clock if you skip seasons. Can’t have that.”

 

“You’re full of it,” she laughs. “We went to a desert planet _and_ an ice planet last week. Was nearly roasted and frozen in the same 48 hours. It’s autumn whenever we want it to be, yeah? Don’t you like autumn?”

 

“Well, yeah. But _apple picking_? It’s just so--”

 

“What?”

 

“Ordinary!” he grouses, sitting up and adjusting his glasses. “Why go apple picking when we could go to Meta Sigmafolio and look at starfire bursts, backlit against a sky that looks _just_ like oil on water? Or we could visit the planet Florana! _Beautiful_ planet. It's covered in perfumed flowers. Beaches with sand like down feathers, and the oceans are filled with bubbles that support your weight. You can float out as far as you like! Its other sea is made of warm milk. The perfect end to a lovely day: Floranan milk.”

 

“I don’t want to drink weird alien milk everyone’s been floatin’ in, and perfume gives me a headache. I want to go apple picking.”

 

“It’s not _real perfume._ ” he argues.

 

This time she does poke him with her toe, right in the rib cage, staring down at him seriously.

 

“What was that for?” he complains, brow furrowed. He rubs his side.

 

“Apple picking,” Rose repeats, undeterred.

 

“Can’t we at least go to Obelis and pick singing apples?” the Doctor asks. “The trees _and_ the fruit are sentient. The fruit sings once it’s off its mother’s vine, tells you where it wants to live. Then you have to plant it! Can’t eat them, of course, but I doubt you’d want to. Once you’ve planted them, they’re so grateful they’ll even follow along with you, if you hum a tune. Oh, they sing the most _beautiful_ arias.”

 

“Nope!” Rose says, offering her hand. The Doctor grabs without hesitation, looking mildly pleased and a little confused until she pulls him. Figuring it out, he lets her pull until he’s standing. “Regular, plain, _ordinary,_ old, earth apple picking.”

 

He twines their fingers.

 

“So be it,” he sighs, squeezing her hand.

 

-

 

It’s early October 2009, and they’re in America.

 

Stepping out of the TARDIS, Rose spots a sign: _MILLER’S ORCHARD, GERMANTOWN, MARYLAND_. The Doctor eyes it suspiciously. Rose looks at him, bites her lip, grins, and skips off towards a nearby path. Hands in the pockets of his trench coat, he follows, peering at their surroundings.

 

The path is dusty, leading uphill to a large field. They’re not even close to alone, with families, couples, and seemingly abandoned children walking and running all around them, following the path steadily toward its crest.

 

Tall trees, most red and orange, some yellow, some brown, and a few green, linger in the distance. Well-worn grass surrounds the path, spotty and crunchy. The midday sun beats down in the clear blue sky, providing warmth on the otherwise chilly day.

 

He catches up to her, and she grins at him, grabbing his hand. He feigns a torn look for a second, then grins back, swinging their arms.

 

“You’re gonna love it,” she promises.

 

He looks at her face. Smiles. Squeezes her hand. “Oh, I’ve no doubt.”

 

As they reach the top of the hill, a renegade toddler runs between them and manages to time it perfectly, _just_ making it through on the upswing of their arms, and disappearing into a field. He’s quickly followed by two older children (bundled in scarves and full coats even though, with the sun, it’s quite pleasant) and their grinning mother, all of whom thankfully proceed _around_ and not through them. The Doctor makes an impressed face and Rose laughs.

 

“Thought we might’ve been pulled into an impromptu game of British Bulldogs,” he smiles, shaking his head.

 

She snorts. “He was gonna lose!”

 

A large sign up ahead, marked along the top with _MILLER’S ORCHARD, MAP_ attracts Rose’s attention and she pulls him to it, standing on her tiptoes to get a look around all the other visitors.

 

A very short, twenty-something woman, blonde and freckled and slightly flushed with excitement, somehow sneaks her way just to the front and right of Rose, and a brown-haired woman, lanky, also freckled, and clearly happy - but not nearly as excited - follows, muttering a timid, “‘Scuse me,” before standing next to her friend. Although they’re out of her way, Rose still can’t see at all, but she also can’t pull off a similar sneaky maneuver with the Doctor still attached to her. And she’s not letting go of his hand.

 

“What’s wrong, Rose? Can’t see over all these people? Maybe someone very dashing and tall should help you.”

 

“Alright, then. Have at it,” Rose suggests, pulling him closer to the sign with their joined hands.

 

He stands on his tiptoes and when she hears him gasp in reaction to the sign, she smiles in satisfaction.

 

“Why didn’t you say -- It’s not just apples, Rose!” he cries. “Raspberries. Sunflowers. _Potato digging!_ Digging your own potatoes, imagine that! And there’s a Pumpkin Festival, just up that way.” He points their joined hands to the right. “With a straw maze! And a petting zoo! _And_ there’s a little shop. You know how I feel about a little shop. Oh, but this is _brilliant._ ”

 

“Not so ordinary now, yeah?”

 

“I retract my earlier statement,” he intones solemnly, then gives her a wink for good measure. “Come on!” He hauls her toward the nearest field.

 

-

 

They start with the apples. Grabbing a basket at the edge of the field, they proceed into the tall rows of fragrant trees, bright green dotted with yellow and red, stark against the blue sky.

 

Rose is surprised to find that, in addition to the kids and families and couples she expects to be perusing the apples, the trees also provide a smorgasbord to a large number of _bees_. They’re a friendly sort of bees, all fat and fuzzy, and they stick mostly to the over-ripe and rotting apples laying on the ground, leaving the fresh pickings to the humans.

 

Still, Rose shrinks away every time one flies anywhere near her. She squeezes the Doctor’s hand just that little bit harder as she ducks an overzealous bee that, whatever its intended trajectory, narrowly misses her forehead. Noticing her alarmed expression, he smiles tenderly at her, and squeezes back.

 

She laughs and shrugs, just a bit embarrassed. “Face down the Slitheen, and the Cybermen, and the ruddy _Daleks_ , but I’m still scared of bees.”

 

“They’re bumble bees, Rose.” One lands on his wrist, and he holds it up for them to look. She manages not to dart away, but still leans over. Just a smidge. “They’re gentle. They don’t swarm. Only the queens and the workers have stings. These are mostly drones. Bees are intelligent, did you know? Some are so intelligent, you’d almost think they were sentient.” The bee flies away, and the Doctor grins at her. “They’re just after some apple juice. Not a bad idea, that.” He picks an apple off the nearest branch, tossing it, arm behind his head. It lands in the basket Rose is holding. He looks so pleased that she laughs, relaxing.

 

“Come on,” she smiles, twining their fingers, tugging him, and letting the basket hit her lightly in the shins as they start walking again. They have four apples so far. She wonders if she’d be any good at baking a pie.

 

They’re rounding a corner when a girl of about ten years old with deep brown skin and long, dark pigtails lets out a squeal, darting past them in a fit of giggles. A smaller boy who can only be her brother chases her, buzzing, holding two big red apples above his head like antennae.

 

Rose grins at the sight, wrapping her arm under the Doctor’s and squeezing his whole arm to her side, tugging him along. He leans into her, just a little bit.

 

-

 

Two hours later, and their basket is filled with _three kinds of apples,_ a carton of raspberries (individually picked), and two sunflowers (‘exceptionally perfect specimens,’ according to the Doctor). In spite of his initial excitement, they decide to skip the potatoes (because of the dirt and all) and resolve to get some chips, instead, after. For now, they head to the Pumpkin Festival.

 

Rose stands at the entrance, surveying the attractions, but the Doctor immediately pulls her over to the concession stand. He buys a caramel apple, watching in fascination as it’s dipped into the sticky substance right in front of him. Rose, meanwhile, chooses a hot dog (she’s in America, after all), and finds it’s good, if a bit salty. He pays, smoothly pulling the correct number of dull green singles from his trouser pocket. It’s a good thing he does, too, as Rose has never even _seen_ American money up close, let alone owned any herself, and there’s a sign on the register that says ‘cash only.’

 

They eat one-handed, still refusing to release each other in some unspoken agreement, or contest, and it’s a little bit awkward, logistically. Hot dogs aren’t inherently messy, but covered in ketchup and mustard as hers is (at the Doctor’s recommendation), it becomes quite a challenge not to dribble condiments all over her shirt.

 

The Doctor, meanwhile, could probably eat his caramel apple with more finesse, but decides instead to hold it horizontally, eating it like a corn on the cob. By the time he’s done, his cheek is smeared with a streak of caramel.

 

Rose laughs at him, and, forgetting herself for a second, licks her thumb. “Hold on a sec,” she says as she runs her thumb against his cheek.

 

He meets her eyes, and she knows he’s carefully maintaining a neutral expression. Knows it, because he doesn’t grin, doesn’t joke, not like he does when he’s comfortable. But his eyes darken, just a little. He doesn’t pull away, so she continues, taking her time. The caramel is sticky, and it takes a little bit of force to wipe it off. Finally succeeding, she wipes her thumb on her jeans.

 

“Perfect.” She smiles brightly.

 

“You too,” he says, quiet. Eyes still on hers, he puts his own thumb in his mouth, then rubs it along the right corner of her mouth. It tickles, a little, the spot sensitive (more lip than cheek), and her breath catches. He scoops up a smudge of bright red streaked with yellow. Without looking away, he sticks his thumb in his mouth.

 

She feels her jaw go a little slack, and for a second she forgets that they’re surrounded by hay bales and pumpkins and sugar-filled children.

 

The moment is broken when the Doctor scrunches up his nose. “Ah, mustard and caramel. _Not_ a good combination.” He raises his eyebrows contemplatively. “The ketchup’s not bad with it, though.”

 

Before she has a chance to respond, he pulls her over near a small stage, sitting on a hay bale and pulling her down next to him. She barely manages not to let go of his hand, clenching it for support instead as she crashes into him, just a little, and lands half on his lap. He has the decency to look sheepish, and she adjusts herself so she’s seated next to him - still close, though, her left leg pressed against his right leg from hip to knee.

 

A four piece band plays enthusiastically on stage - guitar, banjo, fiddle, and drums. The combined beard length of these gentlemen must approach two feet, at least, but they’re good.

 

“Bluegrass,” the Doctor whispers in her ear, even though there’s no need to be quiet; kids are running and screaming nearby. It tickles and raises the hair on the back of her neck. He shifts over even a little more, pointing his knees (clearly knobby, even through his trousers, she notes) subtly toward hers.

 

The fiddle player starts up a fast, impressive solo worthy of a much larger crowd and Rose rests her head on the Doctor’s shoulder, their clasped hands between them. She thinks she feels him press a kiss against her hair, but then he’s mumbling about the history of the _fiddle_ (as a distinct style and entity from the _violin_ ), and she’s not entirely sure. Just in case, she nuzzles her head into his neck just a little bit.

 

-

 

After, they’re more quiet, maybe even a little subdued. They take a hayride to the pumpkin patch, sitting closely together, sipping one cup of hot cider between them (her head is on his shoulder again). For a second, Rose almost wants to break their hands apart so she can burrow under his shoulder, instead (maybe inside his trench coat? Maybe he could wrap it around her?) but she resists the urge. She’s never held anyone’s hand for so long, and she’s not sure what it means, but she knows she won’t be the one to let go.

 

He’s picky, when it comes to pumpkins, and she’s not surprised. They spend an _inordinate_ amount of time in the pumpkin patch. He taps them, knocks on them, sniffs them, licks them… even sonics one. Eventually, after all that, he just asks her to pick one. She chooses a small one that fits into their basket, which the Doctor takes from her, wordlessly. She knows it’s because he thinks her arm is getting tired (it is), so she nudges her shoulder into his arm playfully instead of thanking him out loud. He nudges his shoulder back into hers and she knows it’s _you’re welcome_.

 

Things pick up again when the Doctor sees an intriguing contraption at the edge of the pumpkin patch: a large, round cylinder mounted onto a tractor. At its end is a long barrel, like a giant gun, pointed up at the sky.

 

“What is _that?_ ” he asks in fascination, pulling Rose along.

 

It’s a pumpkin cannon.

 

“It’s a _pumpkin cannon._ Brilliant!” He shoves three dollars at the orchard employee, stepping closer to the machine. “Look at this tank! How many gallons of compressed air is that?”

 

“About two hundred,” the man replies, chewing on something (Rose isn’t sure what, but it’s not chewing gum), and leaning nonchalantly against the side of the cannon.

 

“And what’s the diameter of the barrel?” The Doctor _caresses_ said barrel, eyes eager, other hand still gripping Rose’s. She smiles at his enthusiasm, shooting a helpless look at the employee.

 

“About nine inches,” the man says, looking at his fingernails.

 

“And what’s the typical hang time?” He’s still caressing the barrel. Rose wonders if it’s becoming a bit weird.

 

The man swallows, slowly. Whatever he was chewing is gone. “About twelve seconds.”

 

“Oh, brilliant! And what’s--”

 

The Doctor asks him questions for another five minutes. _Finally,_ he selects a pumpkin (he doesn’t sonic it), loading in a bit of hay and the fruit itself, before pulling the lever. He lets out a shout when it launches, raising their entwined hands in enthusiasm. Surprising herself, Rose does too.

 

-

 

The hayride back stops in front of the little shop. Glancing at one another, they grin in tandem, and it’s only their full basket that keeps them from launching into an all-out run.

 

The shop is _filled_ with preserves. She’s seen him excited before, many times, but his eyes seem to nearly bug out of his head when they walk in. Shelves of preserves. It _smells_ like preserves. Like warm cinnamon and fruit.

 

Rose quickly becomes concerned that they’re going to be kicked out.

 

“All right, just calm down,” she says, attempting to placate him, and he rolls his eyes as if it’s all no big deal (who is he kidding), and then he _drags_ her to the first shelf.

 

Luckily, between the basket and his hand in hers, he can’t stick his fingers in any jars. Which is especially fortunate, since she sees several small children doing just that and, nevermind the supposed superior Time Lord immune system, it’s best not to tempt fate. She’s pretty sure he’d be a right terror if he were sick.

 

He buys five jars of preserves. He selects ten, but he has to stop at five because he _runs out of money_. It’s not that the orchard’s expensive - but the jam sure is. _Gourmet._

 

“You could leave these,” Rose suggests. “We could get loads more apples for the same price and make preserves ourselves. Could be fun, yeah?”

 

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Rose.” He sighs. Deeply. “I’ll just have to pick the _most interesting_ jams.”

 

He pulls the two of them (and the jam) away from the cashier and spends ten minutes narrowing down his choices, without actually explaining what it is that makes preserves _interesting._ He’s too deeply focused. Ultimately, he selects apple butter, spiced honey currant, pumpkin, fig, and raspberry arugula (she’s not sure about that last one).

 

-

 

When they leave the shop, it’s getting dark out.

 

Cars are exiting the nearby parking lot, casting bright flashes of light every few seconds that make Rose squint. She looks up at him and straightens his tie a bit. He looks down at her, one hand in hers, the other holding what must be by now a very heavy basket, face unreadable. She lets the moment sit for a bit before finally speaking.

 

“They’re closing,” she says.

 

“Yeah,” he agrees, still looking down at her. He swallows, and his hand tightens around hers. She knows that look, but can’t quite place it. “Come on.”

 

He pulls her into movement. She glances at him out of the corner of her eye as they walk, wondering at his sudden intensity. Resolve. That’s what it is.

 

They duck past two orchard employees surreptitiously and, soon, find themselves back up the hill, in a wide, empty patch of field near the pumpkin cannon. She’s nervous for a moment (no, they will not be staying here and firing things out of it after hours), until he places the basket gently on the ground and turns to her.

 

“Let’s sit,” he says.

 

She nods, staring up at him with wide eyes.

 

Somehow, he fans the bottom of his trench coat beneath them without dislodging their hands, and they sit on the rather considerable coattails. He can’t put an arm around her, and he can’t take his coat off and lay it out on the ground, and that’s okay. Their fingers are still twined. With anyone else, she thinks, their hands would be sweaty and hot. But between the weather and his body temperature, their grasp is still pleasant. Reassuring.

 

She lays her head on his shoulder again and they’re quiet for a while. She can hear cars in the distance, and crickets.

 

“Why apple picking?” he asks, resting his head on hers.

 

“Dunno,” she smiles. “Seen it in movies. Always wanted to go. Never got the chance, living in the city all my life.” She brings their joined hands to her lap, stroking small circles onto the back of his hand with her fingertips. He sighs softly.

 

“‘Sides,” she continues. “Who says everything we do has to be extraordinary? Even the ordinary stuff is nice.” (With you, she doesn’t say. She thinks he hears it anyway.)

 

Another moment passes.

 

The Doctor lifts his head from hers and untangles their fingers, pulling his hand from her lap.

 

Her stomach flips. Was it too much? All the cuddling, and the thing with the caramel? All of that, plus the apples (and no singing to speak of, except for the bluegrass) - is it _too_ ordinary for him? Did she mess up?

 

She turns to face him, apology half-formed on her lips, when he cups her cheeks in both hands.

 

“Sorry,” he murmurs (stealing the word from her). “I need both of them for this.”

 

He leans in, and she’s unsure for just a second (this can’t be - he’s not going to - _finally --_ ). He kisses her. Softly, on the corner of her mouth where he’d wiped ketchup from her face. He does it again, softer still, perfectly centered on her mouth. She sighs, a faint smile on her lips.

 

He kisses her a third time and she reaches for him, one hand grasping the side of his neck with splayed fingers, the other plunging deliciously into his hair (thick, soft, just as she’d imagined), deepening the kiss. He responds sweetly, still cupping her face in his hands as she darts her tongue into his mouth.

 

He tastes like caramel apples. How? It’s been _hours_ since they’ve eaten.

 

She’s thrilled when he moves one hand down to her waist and pulls her flush against him. His lips move on hers with increasing enthusiasm until he’s dipping his tongue into her mouth. His other hand finds its way into her hair. Unable to stop herself, Rose moans softly, bringing her hand down to his shoulder.

 

He breaks away suddenly, breathing quickly, and she’s surprised to see he’s a little bit flushed. She must be too; her cheeks feel warm.

 

“Just --” He pulls her upright, quickly throwing off his trench coat and laying it out on the grass. He swallows audibly. “Are you cold?”

 

“No,” she whispers.

 

“Is this okay--?” He looks nervous.

 

“Yes,” she says, and she can’t help smiling and rolling her eyes.

 

“Good.” He grins at her.

 

Tugging her down again, they sit on his coat. Still smiling, she gives into an urge she’s had since she first saw him in this suit, grabbing his lapels and pulling him in for a kiss.

 

He responds immediately, hands gripping her waist again and pulling her close. They kiss until she’s dizzy, until she decides she has no choice but to lie back on his coat, pulling him over her. One palm on her waist, the other on her cheek, he kisses her sweetly, half leaning over her, half still seated next to her.

 

She’s not having it. She tugs him, and he adjusts until he’s actually, _properly,_ over her (though he rests his weight on his elbows). He breaks away, looking down at her with an open expression like she’s never seen before - his eyes are almost glittering. And then he brings his mouth down to her neck, trailing kisses from her collarbone to her jaw and back again. She plunges her hands back into his hair, whimpering. He lifts his head just slightly and lets out a pant.

 

She thinks he might be steeling himself.

 

He kisses her again, hard, then moves back to her collarbone and jaw, this time on the other side. Rose starts to feel like she might be losing it. She can feel her pulse in her wrists, her lips, between her legs. She said she wasn’t cold a few minutes ago. Now she’s very warm.

 

“Please,” she pants. “Touch me.”

 

Exhaling as though deep in concentration, he somehow rests his weight on just one elbow (superior Time Lord elbow balance?) and brings one hand from her waist to her breast, simply cupping her softly. He kisses her and she plunges her tongue into his mouth, then sucks his bottom lip. She arches up into his hand and this time _he_ groans.

 

He kneads her, gently, as if he’s doing it despite himself, and she’s never felt so sensitized in her life; lips swollen, neck tingling, and now this. Unable to hold back, she pushes her hips up into his and moans. He moans, too, and she can feel the length of him, pressed against her.

 

She doesn’t want to move too fast - not when they’ve taken it so slow ( _too slow_ ) until now, but he’s driving her crazy.

 

He shifts off her, leaning onto one side and sliding the hand underneath him into her hair, and she’s about to let out a complaint when he moves his other hand down from her breast to the button of her jeans. He meets her eyes, questioning. She nods, kisses him. He pops the button, slides down the zipper.

 

He slips his fingers beneath the elastic of her knickers and reaches in, so gently, until he’s cupping her loosely. He runs his fingertips up and down over her outer lips, and kisses her again, almost chastely. Rose whimpers, trying to deepen the kiss, thrust her hips, do _something_ , but he rubs her neck soothingly with his other hand and keeps tracing gentle patterns with his fingertips between her legs, rubbing his lips against her cheek. Feeling defeated and half crazed, she sighs, kissing his neck softly in return.

 

Naturally, now she’s given up, he parts her outer lips, dipping one finger into her heat and letting out a sigh when he encounters her wetness. He kisses her sweetly again and she gasps into his mouth. She can _feel_ him smile. She nips at his lips in frustration (real payback, later, definitely) and he has the gall to let out a small chuckle, pulling his finger back and tracing the outside of her lips again.

 

She moans in exasperation and is a second away from grabbing his wrist when he slides his fingers back into place, slipping one inside and rubbing her softly.

 

He breaks off their kiss and looks down at her, expression open, a faint smile playing across his swollen lips, freckles standing out against pale moonlight. She smiles back at him until she can’t help but gasp, and bucks her hips against his hand, still frustrated that he’s going so slowly.

 

“You’re beautiful,” he tells her. He’s the one who looks beautiful. Unfettered. _Happy._

 

She looks up at him. “I--” He slides his thumb _just right,_ right where she needs it, his other finger pumping in and out (still so gently) and she moans. It’s only later she realizes what she almost said.

 

He kisses her again, and adds another finger, and it’s too much, she needs him to go faster, she _can’t ---_

 

She locks one arm around his neck, pinning him in place and kissing down his neck and back up again, everywhere she can reach, tasting his skin, until finally she meets his mouth and thrusts her tongue inside. Resolve apparently weakened, he slides his tongue against hers, then pulls back and nibbles her lip, then starts it all over again.

 

She cries out and grabs his shoulder with her other hand. She doesn’t force him to move his arm any faster. She just grips him, squeezing, pushing and pulling in tiny motions to the rhythm of his fingers, digging her short nails into his shirtsleeve. He pants again, into her mouth, and speeds the movement of his fingers ( _finally_ ), two plunging shallow and quick into her while his thumb dances in rapid, light flicks across her clit.

 

She’s raising her hips without conscious thought, just slightly, tongue twisting with his, arms keeping him close. His fingers against her grow slick, rapid movements smooth like a well-oiled piston, and she hears herself keening but she can’t seem to stop. He moans into her mouth and speeds up still more, keeping his fingers against her light, not numbing her out. She thrusts her hips up against his hand in earnest, first in a regular pattern, and finally without any real rhythm at all. Then, she explodes, gripping his face in both her hands and kissing him hard, clenching her inner muscles against his fingers, and moaning unabashedly into his mouth. He keeps his fingers moving, working her through her orgasm, slowing along with her, until finally, they stop.

 

She breaks away from the kiss, panting heavily. He pulls his hand out from her knickers and, fulfilling every romance novel cliché (and yet every fantasy, as well), he licks them clean, eyes closed, savoring. Then, he lies on his back and pulls her into an embrace, stroking her hair with feather-light touches until her breath calms.

 

Rose half sits up, reaching for the waistband on his trousers, but he grabs her hand and pulls it to his mouth. Kisses it.

 

“Why not?” Rose asks, worriedly looking at his face. She calms a bit at his peaceful expression.

 

“Just let me bask,” he says, kissing her knuckles.

 

“Isn’t that my line?” she asks, settling against his chest again.

 

“Should be,” he grins. She can’t help but smile at him, rolling her eyes at the smug expression on his face.

 

“But.. You don’t wanna…?” She trails off.

 

He twines their fingers again, resting their hands on his chest.

 

“There’s time,” he says, and smiles.

 

They’re quiet for a while, and she feels herself growing drowsy. It’s dark, now, and the sky is lit with a three-quarters moon, and so many faint stars.

 

“Where would you like to go next?” he asks, pointing his finger (in their clasped hands, not his free hand, of course) straight up.

 

“Wherever we go, I know it’ll be extraordinary,” she smiles. (With you, she doesn’t say. Doesn’t need to.)

 

Eventually, they find their way back to the TARDIS, holding hands, the Doctor complaining about a sore arm (she’s not sure whether he means the bucket of fall produce, or something else, so she calls him rude just in case).

 

It’s quite a while before they get to those singing apples in Obelis.  


* * *


End file.
